Carlotta.
Damn, how could he have forgotten, even for a second? She was a spy. A traitor. Completely without morals or scruples. He shoved her away from him and strode to the door. “That won't happen again,” he said, his voice clipped.
She looked too stunned to respond.
Blake swore under his breath and stalked out, slamming and locking the door behind him. What the hell was he going to do with her?
Even worse, what the hell was he going to do with himself? Blake shook his head as he bolted down the stairs. This was getting ridiculous. He had no interest in women for anything other than the most basic of reasons, and even for that Carlotta De Leon was monstrously inappropriate.
He had no wish to wake up with his throat slit, after all. Or not to wake up at all, as the case would probably be.
He had to remember who she was.
And he had to remember Marabelle.
Chapter 4
nos.trum (noun). A medicine, or medical application, prepared by the person recommending it; a quack remedy.
He doesn't seem to have much faith in his nostrums, but still he forces them down my throat.
—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent
Blake left her alone for the rest of the day. He was too enraged to trust himself near her. She and her bloody mute throat were infuriating, but the truth was, most of his anger was self-directed.
How could he have thought of kissing her? Even for a second? She might be half-Spanish, but she was also half-English, and that made her a traitor. And it was a traitor who had killed Marabelle.
As if to mirror his mood, it started to rain as the sun went down, and all Blake could think about was the little quill-holder she'd left on the ledge to collect water.
He snorted. As if she were going to perish of thirst after all the tea he'd forced down her throat that afternoon. Still, as he ate his evening meal in silence, he couldn't help but think of her upstairs, locked in the tiny room. She had to be starving. She hadn't eaten all day.
“What is the matter with you?” he said aloud. Feeling sorry for the crafty little spy. Bah! Hadn't he told her he was going to starve her? He never made promises he didn't keep.
Still, she was a skinny little thing, and those eyes of hers … he kept seeing them in his mind. They were huge, so clear they practically glowed, and if he saw them right now, Blake thought with a mixture of irritation and remorse, they'd probably look hungry.
“Damn,” he muttered, standing up so fast he knocked his chair backward. He might as well give her a dinner roll. There had to be better ways to get her to give him the information he needed than to starve her. Perhaps if he doled out the food in a miserly fashion, she'd grow so grateful for what he gave her, she'd start to feel beholden to him. He'd heard of situations where captives had begun to look upon their captors as heroes. He wouldn't mind seeing those blue-green eyes looking at him with a touch of hero worship.
Blake took a small roll from the tray on the table, then put it back in favor of a larger one. And maybe a little butter. It certainly couldn't hurt. And jam … no, he drew the line at jam. She was a spy, after all.
Caroline was sitting on her bed, going cross-eyed watching a candle flame, when she heard him at the door. One lock snapped open, then another, then he was there, filling the doorway.
How was it that every time she saw him he seemed even more handsome than before? It really wasn't fair. All that beauty wasted on a man. And a rather annoying one at that.
“I brought you a piece of bread,” he said gruffly, holding something out to her.
Caroline's stomach let out a loud rumble as she took the roll from his hand. Thank you, she mouthed.
He perched at the end of the bed as she wolfed down the roll with little thought to manners or decorum. “You're welcome. Oh, I almost forgot,” he said. “I brought you butter as well.”
She looked ruefully at the scrap of bread left in her hand and sighed.
“Do you still want it?”
She nodded, took the little crock, and dunked her last bite in the butter. She popped it in her mouth and chewed slowly, savoring every morsel. Heaven!
I thought you were going to starve me, she mouthed.
He shook his head in incomprehension. “Thank you, I can manage, but that was quite beyond me. Unless you've your speaking voice back and would like to actually say that sentence aloud …”
She shook her head, which wasn't technically a lie. Caroline hadn't tested her voice since he'd left. She didn't want to know if it was back or not. It somehow seemed better to remain ignorant on the matter.
“Pity,” he murmured.
She rolled her eyes in reply, then patted her stomach and looked hopefully at his hands.
“I only brought up one roll, I'm afraid.”
Caroline looked down at her little pot of butter, shrugged, and stuck her finger in. Who knew when he'd choose to feed her next? She had to get her sustenance wherever she could, even if it meant eating plain butter.
“Oh, for goodness sake,” he said. “Don't eat that. It can't be good for you.”
Caroline shot him a sarcastic look.
“How are you faring?” he asked.
She waved her hands this way and that.
“Bored?”
She nodded.
“Good.”
She scowled.
“I have no intention of entertaining you. You're not a houseguest.”
She rolled her eyes and let out a little snort.
“Just so long as you don't start expecting seven-course meals.”
Caroline wondered if bread and butter counted as two courses. If so, then he still owed her five.
“How long are you going to keep up this charade?”
She blinked and mouthed, What?
“Surely you have your voice back.”
She shook her head, touched her throat, and made such a sorry face that he actually laughed.
“That painful, eh?”
She nodded.
Blake raked his hand through his black hair, a little bit peeved that this deceitful woman had made him laugh more in the past day than he had in the past year. “Do you know, if you weren't a traitor, you'd be rather entertaining.”
She shrugged.
“Have you ever taken the time to consider your actions? What they cost? The people you hurt?” Blake stared at her intently. He didn't know why, but he was determined to find a conscience in this little spy. She could have been a good person, he was sure of it. She was smart, and she was funny, and—
Blake shook his head to cut off his wayward thoughts. Did he see himself as her savior? He hadn't brought her here for redemption; all he wanted was the information that would indict Oliver Prewitt. Then he would turn her over to the authorities.
Of course, she would probably see the gallows as well. It was a sobering thought, and one that somehow didn't sit well with him.
“What a waste,” he muttered.
She raised her brows in question.
“Nothing.”
Her shoulders rose and fell in a rather gallic motion.
“How old are you?” he asked abruptly.
She flashed all ten fingers twice.
“Only twenty?” he asked in disbelief. “Not that you look any older, but I thought—”
Quickly, she held up one hand again, all five fingers stretched out like a starfish.
“Twenty-five, then?”
She nodded, but she was looking out the window when she did so.
“You should be married with children clutching at your skirts, not running around betraying the crown.”
She looked down, and her lips flattened into an expression that could only be called rueful. Then she twisted her hands in a questioning motion and pointed to him.
“Me?”
She nodded.
“What about me?”
She pointed to the fourth finger of her left hand.
“Why am I not married???
?
She nodded, this time emphatically.
“Don't you know?”
She looked at him blankly, and then after several moments shook her head.
“I was almost married.” Blake tried to sound flippant, but any fool could hear the sorrow in his voice.
What happened? she mouthed.
“She died.”
Caroline swallowed and then placed her hand on his in a gesture of sympathy. I'm sorry.
He shook her away and closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, they were devoid of emotion. “No, you're not,” he said.
She put her hand back into her lap and waited for him to speak. Somehow it didn't seem right to intrude upon his grief. He didn't say anything, though.
Feeling awkward in the silence, Caroline got up and walked to the window. Rain pelted the glass, and she wondered how much water she'd been able to collect in her little receptacle. Probably not much, and she certainly didn't need the water after all the tea he'd fed her today, but she was still eager to see how well her plan had worked. She'd learned long ago how to entertain herself in the simplest of ways. A little project here and there, charting the way the night sky changed from month to month. Perhaps if he kept her here for a while she could do weekly measurements of rainfall. At the very least, it would help to keep her mind occupied.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
She made no reply, verbal or otherwise, and grabbed the bottom of the window with her fingers.
“I asked you what you are doing.” His footsteps accompanied his voice, and Caroline knew he was drawing near. Still she didn't turn around. The window eased up, and the drizzle blew into the room, dampening the front of her dress.
“You little fool,” he said, clamping his hands over hers.
She whirled around in surprise. She hadn't expected him to touch her.
“You're going to be soaked through.” With a slight shove, he pushed the window back down. “And then you'll truly be sick.”
She shook her head and pointed to her little container on the ledge.
“Surely you can't be thirsty.”
Just curious, she mouthed.
“What? I didn't catch that.”
Jjuusstt ccuurriioouuss. She drew it out this time, hoping he'd be able to read her lips.
“If you spoke out loud,” he drawled, “I might understand what you're saying.”
Caroline stamped her foot in frustration, but when it landed, it landed on something considerably less flat than the floor.
“Owww!” he yelled.
Oh! His foot! Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry, she mouthed. I didn't mean it.
“If you think I can understand that,” he growled, “you're crazier than I'd originally thought.”
She chewed on her lower lip remorsefully, then placed her hand over her heart.
“I suppose you're trying to convince me that was an accident?”
She nodded earnestly.
“I don't believe you.”
She frowned and sighed with impatience. This muteness was getting to be annoying, but she didn't see how else to proceed. Exasperated, she pointed her foot forward.
“What does that mean?”
She wiggled her foot, then set it down and stomped on it with her other foot.
He looked at her in utter confusion. “Are you trying to convince me you're some sort of masochist? I hate to disappoint you, but I've never gone in for that sort of thing.”
She shook her fists in the air then pointed at him, then pointed at her foot.
“You want me to stomp on your foot?” he asked in disbelief.
She nodded.
“Why?”
I'm sorry, she mouthed.
“Are you really sorry?” he asked, his voice growing dangerously low.
She nodded.
He leaned closer. “Really and truly?”
She nodded again.
“And you're determined to prove it to me?”
She nodded yet again, but this time her movements lacked conviction.
“I'm not going to stomp on your foot,” he whispered.
She blinked.
Blake touched her cheek, knowing he was insane, but unable to help himself. His fingers trailed down to her throat, reveling in the warmth of her skin. “You're going to have to make it up to me a different way.”
She tried to take a step back, but his hand had snaked around to the back of her head, and he was holding her firmly.
“A kiss, I think,” he murmured. “Just one. Just one kiss.”
Her lips parted in surprise, and she looked so damned startled and innocent that he was able to delude himself, if only for this one moment, that she wasn't Carlotta De Leon. She wasn't a traitor or a spy. She was just a woman—a rather fetching woman—and she was here in his home, in his arms.
He closed the distance between them and brushed his mouth gently against hers. She didn't move, but he heard a soft gasp of surprise pass across her lips. The little noise—the first she'd made all day save for a cough—enchanted him, and he deepened the kiss, tracing the soft skin of her lips with his tongue.
She tasted sweet and salty and just like a woman ought, and Blake was so overcome that he didn't even realize that she wasn't kissing him back. But soon he noticed that she was completely still in his arms. For some reason, that infuriated him. He hated that he desired her this way, and he wanted her to be feeling the same torture.
“Kiss me back,” he growled, the words hot against her mouth. “I know you want to. I saw it in your eyes.”
For a second she made no response, but then he felt her small hand moving slowly along the length of his back. She pulled herself closer to him, and when Blake felt the heat of her body pressing gently against his he thought he might explode.
Her mouth wasn't moving with the same fervor as his, but her lips parted, tacitly encouraging him to deepen the kiss.
“Good Christ,” he murmured, only speaking when he had to come up for air. “Carlotta.”
She stiffened in his arms and tried to pull away.
“Not yet,” Blake moaned. He knew he had to end this, knew he couldn't let it go where his body was begging it to, but he wasn't ready to release her. He still needed to feel her heat, to touch her skin, to use her warmth to remind himself that he was alive. And he—
She wrenched herself away and skidded several steps backward until she was pressed up against the wall.
Blake swore under his breath and planted his hands on his hips as he fought to regain his breath. When he looked up at her, her eyes were almost frantic, and she was shaking her head urgently.
“I was that distasteful?” he bit out.
She shook her head again, the movement tiny but quick. I can't, she mouthed.
“Well, neither can I,” he said, self-loathing evident in his voice. “But I did, anyway. So what the hell does that mean?”
Her eyes widened, but other than that, she made no response.
Blake stared at her for a long minute before saying, “I'll leave you alone then.”
She nodded slowly.
He wondered why he was so reluctant to leave. Finally, with a few muttered epithets, he strode across the room to the door. “I'll see you in the morning.”
The door slammed, and Caroline stared at the space where he'd been for several seconds before whispering, “Oh, my God.”
The next morning Blake made his way downstairs before heading up to see his “guest.” He was going to get her to talk today if it killed him. This nonsense had gone on long enough.
When he reached the kitchen Mrs. Mickle, his housekeeper and cook, was busy stirring something in a soup pot.
“Good morning, sir,” she said.
“So that's what a female voice sounds like,” Blake muttered. “I had nearly forgotten.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“No matter. Would you please boil some water for tea?”
“More tea?” she questioned. “I
thought you preferred coffee.”
“I do. But today I want tea.” Blake was fairly certain that Mrs. Mickle knew there was a woman upstairs, but she'd worked for him for several years, and they had a tacit agreement: he paid her well and treated her with the utmost of respect, and she in turn asked no questions and told no tales. It was the same with all his servants.
The housekeeper nodded and smiled. “Then you'll want another large pot?”
Blake smiled wryly back. Of course this silent understanding didn't mean that Mrs. Mickle didn't like to tease him when she could. “A very large pot,” he replied.
While she was tending to the tea, Blake headed off in search of Perriwick, his butler. He found him polishing some silver that absolutely didn't need polishing.
“Perriwick,” Blake called out. “I need a message sent to London. Immediately.”
Perriwick nodded regally. “To the marquis?” he guessed.
Blake nodded. Most of his urgent messages were sent to James Sidwell, the Marquis of Riverdale. Perriwick knew exactly how to get them to London by the speediest route.
“If you'll just give it to me,” Perriwick said, “I'll see that it leaves the district straightaways.”
“I need to write it first,” Blake said absently.
Perriwick frowned. “Might I suggest that you write your messages before asking me to have them delivered, sir? It would be an ever so much more efficient use of your time and mine.”
Blake cracked a half-smile as he said, “You're damned insolent for a servant.”
“I wish only to facilitate the smooth and graceful running of your household, sir.”
Blake shook his head, marveling at Perriwick's ability to keep a straight face. “Just wait one moment, and I'll write it out now.” He leaned over a desk, took out a paper, quill, and ink, and wrote:
J—
I have Miss De Leon and would appreciate your assistance with her immediately.
—B
James had had previous dealings with the half-Spanish spy. He might know how to get her to talk. In the meantime, Blake would just have to ply her with tea and hope she regained her voice. He really had no other option. It hurt his eyes too much to look at her handwriting.